


Lights Cut Out

by summerstorm



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: 2010 F1 World Championship, Character Study, GP Related, M/M, Original Character - Freeform, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-27
Updated: 2010-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:03:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Self-indulgent character study/PWP/idfic with no redeeming qualities. I wrote this in one sitting after the Belgian GP, where Vettel did this zig zag thing (my racing knowledge, let me show you) to overtake Button and ended up driving right into the side of Button's car instead, effectively fucking up to varying but not that different degrees (Vettel didn't have to pull out, but he ended far behind the points zone) both their races.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lights Cut Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [annemari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annemari/gifts).



> Pairing, title and my working up the nerve to post this: all annemaris's fault.

The real issue for Sebastian here, the real complication, beyond revising strategy and trying not to hit anything so it won't turn into a full-on fight with his furniture and avoiding being in the same room as Mark at all times, comes down to, well. Feelings.

Obviously kicking the dresser in his hotel room and dodging Mark like he has the plague both have to do with feelings, but frustration and pride are things he's used to dealing with. They're better faces to break out than embarrassment, for him, regardless of the way he comes across and the enemies it occasionally makes him. He can always smile and reach out like he's sorry but he's too stubborn to say it later. Like, after the championship. The team's still backing him, anyway, and that's all he really needs right now. Besides, he's never actually sorry, especially by the time he gets around to pretending he is. And he's already working on taming his ego, though his ego's making the enterprise as difficult as it's ever been. But it's all he can do, so there's no use in feeling bad about it.

But this kind of thing clouding his judgment, his recovery, his moods? It's new and infuriating and absolutely inconvenient, and if it doesn't stop right this second Sebastian is going to have to surgically remove it from his brain. There must be a way to do it. He'll figure it out and register a patent and get rich. Richer. As heated and lonely as his despairing over this whole mess has gotten at times, he knows he can't possibly be the only person who'd go to drastic measures to stop crushing on someone he's simultaneously supposed to _beat_.

It's just. Ridiculous. Fifteenth place. Sebastian's not a fifteenth-place driver. Not even if he accidentally drives his wing into another car. He's just not. He's supposed to recover when he does that kind of shit. And the worst part, the part he can't get over, is the _guilt_.

Because, okay, the definition of accident is that it's not his fault. But Jenson's had a few bad races and he was second and of course Sebastian had to overtake him, because his judgment is not that clouded yet, but he didn't mean to drive him _out_. Sebastian's never felt like dirty victories were lesser ones, and anybody else he'd be fine about running out, but this is not even a victory, and it's Jenson, so his brain is stuck on this loop of _shit, fuck, why did I even try_ and _he must be so mad at me_. It's childish and it's stupid and in all truthfulness most of his personal problems are those two things, but this one is also all his bloody goddamned fault.

Advice: look forward. Focus on the next race. What happened in Belgium had nothing to do with you as a driver or with the car. There's still lots of points in play. That's all—he expects that. That's his thought process, even. Nothing he hasn't heard a million times in his head.

But then the third person tells him he should take a day off and go home, home like hometown home, not Switzerland home, and he feels all of seven years old as someone old enough to be his grandfather tells him to get on a plane so he can give his mom a hug before the next GP. This with half the engineering team standing behind him. It's a grim situation.

He does anyway. Go home, that is. He jumps on a train, because he's always liked trains, and he eats homemade food and pretends he's not a professional Formula 1 driver with a chance at the world championship. His actual life is a million times better than that possibility, so then he pretends he's not a professional Formula 1 driver who's had to try really, really hard for the past two years not to blush every time Jenson freaking Button says a word to or about him.

It's not easy at all, so in the end, he goes out and gets drunk.

He does this with his best friend from high school—his ex-girlfriend, too, but they don't talk about that. He figures if he's going to spill his guts to anyone about this, it should be someone who already knows everything else and has stuck with him through the revealing of his deepest, darkest secrets.

"You have no deep, dark secrets," Johanna says when he explains this.

"What about that time I got drunk and ended up in bed with you and that guy you were dating last year?"

"He knew it was about him. If he'd thought it was about me, he would've said no."

Sebastian narrows his eyes and thinks. "Okay, how about that time I asked you to—"

"Wasted," Johanna says. "That's not a secret, that's a sign you should stop drinking." As if to follow her theory, she snatches his beer out of his very hand. She takes such a long gulp Sebastian figures he might as well order a new one than try to get it back.

"Fine," he says, lifting the new bottle to his lips. "You know all my shallow, light secrets," he acquiesces.

"I'm still dating him, you know," Johanna says after a moment.

"Who?"

"My boyfriend whose cock you were so intent on sucking last year," she says, and he chokes on the rim of his bottle. When he stops coughing, she adds, "If you ever want to repeat that performance, I think he'd be up for it."

"Why are all your relationships so weird?"

Johanna shrugs. "They're not weird. I kind of owe him. Think of it as like, if we had an exceptions list, you'd probably be on his draft. And I'd allow it."

"You have a _list_?" Sebastian says, eyes wide—partly from shock and partly because they're still itching from the coughing fit.

"I said if," Johanna repeats, futilely.

"I need a stronger drink."

Two hours later, he's stumbling into a stool in her kitchen and saying, "I swear he's just—his hands, and his smile—fuck, he's, like, the most beautiful thing I've seen since I signed my Red Bull contract."

Johanna just eyes him carefully as she takes care of her bag and her boots and the lights.

"Or maybe since my first first-place trophy. I liked that one." He considers how much, and faceplants on the kitchen island. "Actually," he mumbles into his forearm, "I think I like Jenson's smile better." He sits up again and watches Johanna grab a jug of water from the fridge and fill too glasses. "It's just so—"

Johanna blinks down at him, slowly. Maybe he's making that up. "It's just so?" she prompts.

Bright. Cute. "It's just so hot," he decides, because it's the least embarrassing adjective he can think of. "It goes straight to my dick."

"Some guy's smile is so pretty it turns you on," Johanna repeats, enunciating. "Okay, maybe I won't tell anyone you said that."

They drink their water in silence, and then Johanna looks up abruptly.

"Oh my God," she says, all in quick succession, "is this the guy you crashed into last week? Are you _depressed_ because you messed up his race? Is that why you came home? Did you hit your head? Oh my God, are you okay?" She's holding back laughter, amusement playing wild in her smile, and Sebastian hates her.

He rubs his face with his hands and groans to show just how much. "Deep, dark secret," he says, because he's not letting go of a chance to prove he was right, even if Johanna's too busy cracking up and humiliating him right now.

"More like lovely and fluffy," she points out, wheezing.

"I just feel so _horrible_ ," he tells her.

Johanna leans on her elbows on the table, face turning annoyingly compassionate. "It's not just his smile, is it." He doesn't answer, because it's not a question. She sits back and says, "Man, you've got it bad."

"I didn't even do anything wrong."

"That might actually make apologizing easier for you."

"It's not like I was _trying_ to crash into him," he continues, like she didn't say a word.

"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself," Johanna says. "Baby's First Regret. Unless that's a metaphor."

"Shut up," Sebastian says. Then, warily, "What's a metaphor?"

"Crashing into him," she says. As his nose meets marble again, she goes on, "Maybe you should try that."

"Championship," he mumbles into the surface. It feels good. Cold.

"You're already affected."

"Girlfriend."

"Maybe they're off again by now."

"They're not."

"Maybe they have a list?"

He reaches forward blindly to slap her. He thinks he catches her wrist. Good enough.

"At least apologize," Johanna concludes. "You're pathetic like this."

*

He wakes up to a massive headache and an embarrassingly shiny car honking under Johanna's living room window.

And a crick in the neck, let's not disregard that.

It can't be more than two hours that pass before he's on a plane, between driving and picking his stuff up from his mom's and trying not to vanish without saying goodbye. He gets his phone out to check the time, and that's when he remembers.

"Shit," he says. Johanna. Johanna's always been terrible at hiding his phone properly when he's drunk.

It takes more clicking and cursing than strictly necessary to figure out what exactly he texted Jenson to prompt him to respond _I'm not big on the whole hating thing. Waste of breath. Take care of the hangover._ He goes from hoping it's a misdirected text and he didn't actually send anything to hoping he just send a standard, cold apology to convincing himself he'll live it down as long as none of his conversation with Johanna after they moved to the living room made it into any outward-bound messages. This whole process happens in its entirety in the ten seconds it takes him to check his sent messages and find out all he sent was _I'm so sorry about Belgium, please don't hate me_ , only with more typos than actual correct letters.

He finds Johanna's number and texts her, _You were wrong. Now I feel even more pathetic_.

An hour later, she replies, _I bet he'll forgive you if you blow him._

 _Stop talking, Johanna. Stop talking forever_ , he sends back.

That should be the end of it, the end of this whole debacle.

To celebrate, he locks himself in the shower when he gets to his hotel and jerks himself off quick and guilty, thinking about swallowing Jenson's come.

*

It's not the end of it. As soon as he's settled in Monza, Johanna starts texting him increasingly explicit ways to "punish" himself for what happened in Belgium. It gets to a point where he doesn't even need Jenson to be within hearing range to either feel his cheeks flush or get hard at the sight of him. It's torturous. It's the only reason he shows up at Jenson's door when he's sure nobody else will be with him—unless Jessica flew in, or he picked someone up, or—why can't he crush on, like, someone like Mark, who's married and can't stand the sight of him already and is definitely, surely out of reach in every possible way?

The first thing he says is, "I'm so sorry about the drunk texting. And the—other thing. And the staring probably. Have I stared a lot? I might have stared a lot. Even more than I did before. I'm sorry about that. But I'm really sorry about the drunk texting in particular."

Jenson closes the door behind him with a wary look and says, "That's the second time you've told me you're sorry in, what, five days? It's freakish."

"I'm perfectly capable of guilt," Sebastian points out. "Basic human emotion and all."

"Fair enough," says Jenson, "but if you were going to apologize to anyone, shouldn't you have started out with Mark?"

Sebastian shuffles his feet and takes a deep breath and blurts out, "My friend keeps texting me sexual favors I should offer you." It has the completely unexpected effect of him getting to see what Jenson looks like when he's taken aback. His mouth is half open and his eyes are sort of wide and blank and Sebastian wants to jump him so badly. "So you'll forgive me," he clarifies, just in case. He wasn't sure he was still capable of speech either, so this disproves that. And that's. That's good. Better than the alternative.

"I told you I don't do resentment. There's a lot of faces I couldn't look in right now if I did. Whatever your friend's suggesting, I assure you it's not n—"

"Necessary?" Sebastian supplies. "I didn't mean I—" He tries again. "I just can't stop _thinking_ about it. I'd—thought about most of it before but it's gotten sort of. Out of hand. Really out of hand."

"So when you say you're sorry about the drunk texting, you mean you're sorry for yourself," Jenson asks. Sebastian thinks most people would be offended by that, but Jenson seems just amused by it all. His laugh sounds genuine, at least. His laugh sounds like a wet dream, really.

Fuck, it's gotten _so_ out of hand.

"I'm legitimately sorry I blew your radiator?" he offers. "It wasn't purposeful, but it could have. I don't know. But I do feel bad. Though that's mainly for the same reason I keep picturing Jo's texts in detail so I'm not sure how much it counts."

"I'll take it at face value," says Jenson, still half-smiling.

Sebastian's starting to feel out of his depth here. Why did he even _come_? "Okay," he says, nodding. "Great. I'm sorry I just made the rest of this season's compulsory gatherings incredibly uncomfortable for both of us. I'll just be." He gestures vaguely in the direction of the door. "Going."

"I liked your word choice there, about the radiator," Jenson says before Sebastian's even gathered the presence of mind to turn around.

Sebastian shoves his hands in his pockets in an attempt to make himself believe he's stuck in place on purpose and not because he's ashamed to the point of psychosomatic paralysis.

"What word choice?"

"Blow," Jenson says, and his eyes drop fairly obviously to Sebastian's mouth.

Sebastian's mouth drops slightly open, but he recovers quickly, licking his lips and stepping into Jenson's space before he has a chance to believe he's misreading everything.

When he kisses Jenson, Jenson kisses back.

He kisses back slow, with his hands on both sides of Sebastian's face, keeping him upright and opening up his mouth like Sebastian isn't more than willing to be manhandled onto his knees and have Jenson's cock shoved down his throat without any ado. Sebastian's not sure how you could possibly think otherwise, what with the way his palms are sweating on Jenson's forearms and his breathing is all over the place and his fingers are itching to get to Jenson's fly.

Then again, maybe Jenson kisses like someone who hasn't been bombarded with scarily personalized, perverted text messages disguising as advice. Advice. And it turns out it might actually have been good advice, so maybe the right thing to do now is not just stand there, is actually go for it before he melts into a puddle of pathetic, shivering goo.

"Christ, you work fast," he hears when he blinks himself out of that trance. He's backed Jenson against the nearest flat surface, which happens to be a chaise of some sort, and he's working on getting Jenson's jeans off. It's difficult when Jenson's nipping at his jaw and he can't actually see anything. Besides, he can feel Jenson's cock through the fabric because his hands keep bumping against it by accident, and it's successfully destroying all his higher brain functions.

He gets by on instinct, must be, finally pushing everything he can down as Jenson gets back to his mouth. Sebastian wonders if it would be okay for him to note that Jenson really likes kissing. Maybe he's just doing it to give something back, though, since the deal here is that Sebastian gets to suck him off. You can get away with a lot of selfishness in bed when you're even a little bit famous. And when you look like Jenson, Sebastian realizes as he watches him pull his shirt over his head and kick his jeans off and be _naked_ , he doesn't think anybody even _minds_.

"You alright? You look kind of—"

Sebastian forces himself to look up and says, "What?" as he maneuvers Jenson down onto the chaise, near the edge, his fingertips digging into Jenson's ass. He's already on his knees when he remembers the question. "I look what?"

Jenson shakes his head, looking intent, and it's only when Sebastian focuses on his cock that Jenson says, "Fuck, your face," which is probably the closest thing to an answer he's going to get. He doesn't even care. Jenson's thighs are firm under his hands, yielding easily when Sebastian spreads them further apart to settle in between them, and Sebastian's so far gone it doesn't even feel embarrassing to openly gaze at Jenson's cock and thoroughly wet his lips—not even because it's always a good idea but because he's pretty close to salivating.

He's so far gone he's really not embarrassed at all about _anything_. He just wants Jenson's cock in his mouth, so he leans forward and swallows it down, wrapping a hand around the base to cover what his mouth can't and metaphorically saying fuck it to taking his time. It's not that he doesn't want to. It's that he physically can't.

It's probably a really bad, really sloppy blowjob—he barely has any idea what he's doing half the time, just that he wants _more_ and he's closer to coming than Jenson is even though he hasn't even been touched, and there's this buzzing in his ears, and every time he pulls off to swirl his tongue across the slit or ducks down to lick Jenson's balls and kisses his way back up, he can hear himself moan like a whore. Even when his mouth is full, the sounds still fly up from his stomach, vibration instead of actual noise, muffling everything else out of his hearing range, everything but wet friction and Jenson's breaths turning to panting.

It's one of those times that Jenson's hand comes down on his head and tugs at his hair as a warning, kind of weirdly polite considering everything, but Sebastian takes the chance to drag his mouth off and close his eyes just in time for Jenson to come all over his face.

When he opens his eyes, Jenson murmurs, "Jesus," and, "Fuck, come here," and sits further back in the chaise, his legs sprawling at both sides, making it impossible not to stare at him.

Sebastian somehow manages to kneel up on the seat and drift forward enough for Jenson to pull him the rest of the way in. He sits on his heels, and then Jenson's pulling his cock out and he can _see_ how wrecked Sebastian is and his hand is so tight around Sebastian's cock and he's saying, "Get that shit off your face," and actually groans in surprise when Sebastian drags his fingers over his own cheeks, gathering Jenson's come and sticking his fingers in his mouth, licking at them, and it's all so overwhelming Sebastian has to close his eyes and loses track of his self-control again and it's all over in seconds.

"How long have you—that was more than a week's worth of pining," Jenson's saying when Sebastian regains his ability to understand words. He's standing nearby, wiping his neck with a towel, still completely naked, and Sebastian wants to lick his sweat. It's disgusting. He's disgusting. He also kind of wants to take a picture, but he thinks that's just natural. He wonders if Jenson would let him do that. For, like, the road.

He takes a deep breath, and the towel when Jenson hands it to him, and says, "It's really pathetic," and sort of collapses forward on the chaise.

"It can't be worse than what I inferred from watching you—" Jenson stops to consider the possible ways to end that sentence. Sebastian's sure there's a lot. "From watching you," Jenson settles on.

"No, but it can be harder to communicate."

"I see," says Jenson. "So basically I have to get you hot and bothered or thoroughly hammered to get you to tell me that?"

"Please do," Sebastian blurts out. His eyes widen at it. He shakes his head. "I mean, I wouldn't say no to that. Probably. Unless it's in front of anyone else, in which case I'm annoyed with you and see no reason ever to apologize." He looks up, tries for sincere, which is seriously so embarrassing when it comes to Jenson, and says again, "But please do."

"Noted," Jenson says, beginning to smile one of those smiles that Sebastian kind of dies at. "I'll think about it."


End file.
